


Know When to Hold 'Em

by QLaLa



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Poker, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 09:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15531645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QLaLa/pseuds/QLaLa
Summary: Ace up one's sleeve:1. (idiomatic) A surprise advantage of which others are not aware.





	Know When to Hold 'Em

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moriavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriavis/gifts).



> For the prompt "Coldflash and wine." Thanks to Moriavis for the suggestion, and to my faithful beta Elizabeth for the edits.

Someone set a perilously full glass down onto the green felt surface in front of Len, startling him from his thoughts and prompting the dealer to snap a reminder about keeping drinks off the table. 

The wine was a cheap trick; Len was more insulted that someone had bothered trying it on him than anything else. It was either drugged, or meant to ease him into harder liquor, or both. But Len wasn’t that stupid, and he didn’t bother even glancing at the drink. 

“Think I’ll pass,” he said.

“I don’t know,” a voice—familiar, and probably not as much of a surprise as its owner thought it was—said from behind him. “You look like you could use a little  _ chilling _ out.” 

The line was bad enough to make Len drop his guard, and it took all of his discipline not to react when Barry ghosted his fingers up his sleeve as he drew his hand back from the wine glass. 

Len flattened his palm over his cards before turning. He cased Barry with a quick once-over: a black button-up, its top three buttons undone to expose just this side of too much skin; a heavy hooded jacket, also black, that Len had seen only once before; and messily styled hair that gave Barry a dark, fucked-out look that was at least as distracting as the trace of gloss on his bottom lip. 

Len managed to recover his voice, but kept it low as he drawled: “Didn’t expect you to be joining us,  _ Sam _ .” 

Barry’s answering grin was quicksilver, a sharp flash of teeth and a conspiratorial glint in his eyes. Ridiculously pleased that Len had remembered his faux-criminal alter-ego from the diamond heist. “And let you play without your good luck charm?” he asked. He gave him a distinctly un-Barry pout, and Len barely restrained his gaze from tracking the play of light off his lower lip. “You should’ve called.”

The mischief in Barry’s gaze shifted into something a little more accusing, a genuine reprimand showing underneath the act. Then Barry caught his slip, remembering their audience, and reached out to touch him again. 

Len tried to warn him off with a sharp glance at the offending hand, but Barry ignored him and traced his fingers over the edge of his jacket’s collar. 

Len had to press his palm a little harder to the table to keep himself from knocking the touch away. He could sense eyes on them now. Obviously, Barry didn’t understand the risks of playing an angle he couldn’t sell. It wasn’t that Barry couldn’t hold his own against any of the others in the room, dangerous as they may have been; Len just didn’t need a diplomatic incident if one of them tried to claim what Barry was clearly here to offer. 

So he kept his shoulders relaxed and took his time bringing his gaze up to Barry’s face again, making it clear to the others with a tilt of his head that he’d decided to tolerate the behavior. 

The haughty set of Barry’s jaw told him he thought he was being clever, and Len wanted badly to drag him from the room and explain how completely he’d just fucked his entire plan for the night. 

If he’d been improvising, a speedster in his back pocket might’ve been helpful. But Len had planned the preparations for the evening down to the half-second, and a certain interfering metahuman hadn’t factored in. Barry introduced new variables, several of which Len couldn’t control for in the time he had left. He’d also brought  _ himself _ , more liability than ally, completely oblivious to the danger he was currently posing to himself, to Central, and (most importantly) to Len. 

Ignoring his obvious annoyance, Barry ducked his head in close to speak to him under the murmur of unfriendly voices around them. Len didn’t flinch at the invasion of his personal space, but he still had to blink hard at the first brush of Barry’s mouth against his ear, his lips slightly sticky from the gloss.

“You didn’t really think I’d let you lose control of Central in a game of chance?” Barry asked. 

He sounded too cocky by half, and the smile in his voice was a sure indication that he had no idea how neatly he’d just endangered everyone he cared about. 

Len closed his hand over Barry’s belt buckle as he tried to draw back, startling him into stillness.

“First of all,” he said, dropping the drawl enough to let the anger behind his words bleed through, “Poker is a game of skill. Not chance.” He could feel where his knuckles were pressed to Barry’s lower stomach that he’d stopped breathing, and he gave him a knowing look from under his lashes. “Second of all”—he curled his fingers tighter, relishing the bite of cold metal and the touch of color that rose in Barry’s cheeks—“I’m not gonna lose.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are wildly appreciated.


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